


Le soleil est près de moi

by Claramarla, ken_ichijouji (dommific)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Forbidden Romance, Grad Courting Gestures in the form of Gifted Pets, Hall of Mirrors Frottage, Long-Haired Katsuki Yuuri, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Masquerade Ball, Public Sex, The Palace of Versailles, cross-dressing, yeah you read that tag right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 10:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claramarla/pseuds/Claramarla, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dommific/pseuds/ken_ichijouji
Summary: The prince moves across the grounds in robes the same shades as sapphires. He walks astride the King, not behind, as he proudly conducts the tour of the incredible grounds with ease. An austere woman follows at a respectful pace in gray and violet. She and the prince both have wide fabric belts in contrasting colors tied at their waists, and the prince’s ebony hair is styled similarly to his companion’s, though hers is vastly more complex.“He’s quite comely up close,” Christophe continues with a wicked grin. “Though he seems a touch aloof in humor. Perhaps if I treat him to a little wine, a little of my solitary attention—“Victor gives him a startled look. “No,” he manages, his eyes immediately locking back onto the prince. “Not…notthis one, Christophe.”A Victuuri AU set during Louis XIV's reign at Versailles for Born to Make (Art) History zine





	Le soleil est près de moi

Spring is in full bloom at the Palais, and while it is no less splendid than years prior, the younger Count Nikiforov cannot help but think the parterres seem a touch drab in comparison to last year. 

Too early in the year for the tuberoses, Victor strolls with his usual companion among fragrant jasmine. The late morning constitutional has led them to the Bassin de Latone, and his friend, the Junker Giacometti, prattles on about some pretty thing he’s set his sights on for a weekend or two of hedonism. It is the same as ever, and Victor only half-listens before ceasing entirely.

“— And that is when I and the Phra Ong Chao decided to…Vitya?” Christophe asks. His left eyebrow quirks with the same curiosity filling his tone, but only until he looks across the grounds to see what caught Victor’s eye. “Ah, yes. They only arrived late last evening.”

Christophe, of course, speaks of the Katsuki-no-miya, Yuuri-shinnō, and his sixty-person entourage. They have arrived from the far East at the behest of the Sun King himself, with the prince here in his father’s stead in some sort of cultural exchange.

The prince moves across the grounds in robes the same shades as sapphires. He walks astride the King, not behind, as he proudly conducts the tour of the incredible grounds with ease. An austere woman follows at a respectful pace in gray and violet. She and the prince both have wide fabric belts in contrasting colors tied at their waists, and the prince’s ebony hair is styled similarly to his companion’s, though hers is vastly more complex.

“He’s quite comely up close,” Christophe continues with a wicked grin. “Though he seems a touch aloof in humor. Perhaps if I treat him to a little wine, a little of my solitary attention—“

Victor gives him a startled look. “No,” he manages, his eyes immediately locking back onto the prince. “Not…not  _ this one,  _ Christophe.”

Before Christophe can inquire further, Victor takes a few steps towards the prince. He disappears, perhaps to the orangerie, or perhaps…

Well, such a visitor will surely remain for a while.

 

* * *

 

More days pass than he prefers thanks to a busy schedule of official engagements. But as time advances to midsummer, Lady Luck bestows a boon upon Victor.

His beloved companion Makkachin begs him for a game of fetch along the Water Avenue. She runs with abandon towards the Dragon Basin, and Victor runs after her in his riding habit. His uncle requested a ride around the perimeter of the palais, and Victor did not see a need to change to play with Makkachin.

Makkachin has disregarded her manners entirely to accost some poor soul reading at the pool’s edge. There’s an exclamation in a language Victor does not recognize, and as he runs with the beginnings of pleas for forgiveness on his tongue, he hears…laughter?

A book lies on the ground covered in fresh paw prints. Next to it lies a figure whose smile is so bright Victor believes that while its luminosity may blind him, at least this is the last vision he will carry to his grave.

The prisoner of Makkachin’s wet, mouthy affection is the prince, Yuuri-shinnō. He wears the same blue as the sky over the palais after it rains. It suits him, warming his features and highlighting the amber in his eyes. His glasses are askew on the tip of his nose, and chin-length wisps of onyx fall into his face as his careful topknot comes undone. In a more ephemeral sense, Victor comes undone as well.

He collects himself with a shake. “I am quite sorry! Makkachin normally has much better graces.”

“It’s alright,” Yuuri-shinnō replies. “I’m fond of dogs, though she’s bigger than the ones at home. Our hunting dogs are—“ He gestures with his hands to about a third of Makkachin’s length. “They’re also bright red and tenacious.”

Victor offers a hand. Yuuri-shinnō hesitates before taking it.

What a shame he still wears his kidskin, Victor laments. Yuuri-shinnō’s hands are quite elegant, with long fingers and soft-looking skin. As Victor pulls him off the grass, he steps closer than he should. Yuuri-shinnō’s eyes widen before he clears his throat and moves to a more respectful distance. “Yes, our hunting dogs are much smaller,” he finishes. “They are precious to us though. Shiba Inus.”

"Shiba Inus,” Victor repeats. “Makkachin’s breed is a hunting breed.”

“She’s sweet,” Yuuri-shinnō replies. “The Shibas can be aloof. Not like your Makkachin.” He bends down to pet her, and Makkachin eats up the attention with a furiously wagging tail.

Victor tries to not stoop so low to be envious of his best girl.  He tries, and fails miserably. “I do not believe we’ve been formally introduced?”

“Katsuki-no-miya Yuuri-shinnō,” the prince tells him as he bends into a bow. He does not shake hands.

Victor is not insulted, as he is far too enchanted. Yuuri-shinnō’s beauty easily eclipses the grounds they inhabit.

“Count Nikiforov,” Victor replies, returning the gesture in kind. “You may call me Victor, if you wish.”

The prince straightens his posture, and Victor follows his lead. “Then you should also refer to me by my name. I find titl…my name is preferred.”

“Yuuri, then. What are you reading?” Victor rescues the tome, and Yuuri takes it from him with a small, grateful smile. Victor has seen scores of smiles and his is by far the most perfect, though he cannot decide if it is due to his bashfulness or his sincerity.

Yuuri opens the leather-bound manuscript. The writing is in the language of his home, calligraphic script with characters arranged elegantly for their simplicity. “Matsuo Bashō,” Yuuri answers. “The form is called haiku.”

“Poetry,” Victor says with some surprise. Not often do people read poetry at the palais; not with such earnestness, not with a genuine affection for the genre as they reverently clean a muddy paw print off a page. “Would you perhaps read some to me?”

Yuuri turns the same shade as crushed cinnabar. It would better suit his complexion as a lip pigment, though Victor’s rather charmed regardless. Before he answers, a woman’s voice calls in his mother tongue. She is insistent and shrill, the same woman from when Victor first saw him.

Yuuri bows. “Another time,” he offers.

The prince joins his guardian, stealing a glance back to Victor. As he watches him vanish into the orangerie, Victor feels something in his heart stir and contract in a way that is equally violent in its pleasure as well as its pain.  

 

* * *

 

Aside from oil lanterns and glittering candles, the Venus Room is dim; the emerald damask covering the walls lends an air of sultriness as the notes of five string instruments soar through the gathering. Revelers snack on colorful marzipan and sweet lemons that have been stacked into pyramids, underneath high ceilings blanketed with paintings of the Goddess of Love herself.  

Victor stands near fragrant peonies in shades of Persian pink and virtuous white arranged artfully in a basket as he sips on brandy. Even an expensive gathering of courtiers can turn common from prolonged exposure, he supposes, as he greets the twin heirs to the House of Crispino with a bland smile.

Only a year ago, Lully’s overture to  _ La triomphe de l’amour  _ would set Victor’s heart fluttering, but in this moment he thinks it has been a year too much of this particular ballet.

The piece draws to a close, and Victor leads the audience in a polite round of applause. He scans the crowd with his eyes, lighting up when he sees the beautiful prince Yuuri holding a glass of fizzing lavender punch during a spirited discussion with the King. His robes are navy and indigo this evening with bits of red shaped like gingko leaves adorning his torso and arms.

If Yuuri were speaking to anyone but His Grace, Victor would steal him like a fine jewel, making the prince his to display or hoard as he so pleases.

The music changes to a piece Victor is as bored by as the one before, and the King departs to attend to his wife. Victor seizes the opportunity, passing by  _ trompe-l’œil _ statues and elegantly-robed acquaintances to ensnare his prey. “Bonsoir, Yuuri,” he says with a slight bow. He holds one hand behind his back with the other across his stomach, because surely if he does not he will do something rash like take his hands and run for Paris.

“Bonsoir, Victor,” Yuuri responds with a significant amount of warmth. He bows as well, and Victor rises enough to meet his gaze.

This time, there is a sore lack of impulse control within every inch of Victor’s bones as he takes Yuuri’s left hand with a delicate touch, turning his arm just enough that he can kiss the blue-green of the vein connecting his wrist to every beat of his heart.

When their eyes meet a second time, Yuuri’s countenance has transformed into the same shade of red that adorns his garments. Unbefitting royalty, he chokes and stammers out a squawk. Victor is about to ask if something is wrong when a stern female voice asks, “Yuuri-shinnō, may I have a word?”

Based solely on her complexion and the rich brown of her hair this woman cannot be much older than Victor, but she carries herself like a long-suffering major domo. Victor gives her a smile, though he does not release Yuuri’s hand. “I have not had the pleasure, I’m afraid,” he offers. “Count Nikiforov of the—“

“I’m quite aware,” she answers with all of the sweetness of an overripe lime. “Come.” She steers Yuuri towards an Italian Baron named Cialdini. Yuuri gives Victor an apologetic smile as they depart. The woman does not.

Christophe joins him with his own frosted punch glass. He sips with a raised eyebrow and an adjustment of the sword at his belt. Versailles etiquette is rigid and its dress code is ever more so, as Victor and even Yuuri carry their own swords for the appointed supper at ten. Christophe laughs, though not unkindly. “You would not be more obvious if you built him his own chateau here at the palais. Perhaps even a small scale version of Le Grand Trianon, if you felt so bold.”

The song swells into the passionate movements of the  _ Ballet of Psyché ou de la puissance de l’Amour.  _  “I wonder what that was about,” Victor muses as his eyes train on Yuuri like a hawk’s would a field mouse after subsisting too long without on too little sustenance.

“The Lady Okukawa is the prince’s mentor, governess, and handler rolled into one,” Christophe explains. “Rumor is that he got himself into a bit of a scandal back home, and his humiliation was so much he insisted his father send him on this goodwill tour tightly leashed.”

Scandals are easily overcome provided those at their heart lay low for enough time. Victor salutes his foresight as well as his cunning. “What sort of scandal?”

Christophe wiggles his eyebrows. “Apparently when our dear friend’s mind is too heavy with liquor, he turns quite bawdy. I heard mention of brazen flirtatiousness and even semi-nude public dancing. The kind of dancing you’d see from your favored femme d’argent, not quite the genteel ballroom movement one would expect from the man who is third in line for the Chrysanthemum Throne.”

Yuuri returns Victor’s stare and with another quick flush, he smiles with a shaky expression. Perhaps there is longing there that mirrors the dominant emotion in Victor’s soul. It makes the world stop, and Victor can no longer discern the  _ dessus  _ and  _ haute-contre _ skillfully executed by the court musicians.

“The Lady Okukawa treats her task with the utmost importance,” Christophe continues. “Though if I understand properly, she is also quite a fan of the drink. Maybe this is a self-inflicted test so they both may prove their worthiness.”

The implication is clear without Christophe speaking plainly: Yuuri did something unspeakable and now he is here with a chaperone so he does not repeat his mistakes. Time is fleeting and moves far too fast. How can he get to know Yuuri better if he cannot get him alone? If he cannot get Yuuri to relax and show more of himself, the few weeks that remain will never be enough.

False idols and diffident façades can satisfy no one.

Victor chugs his brandy and grabs another. False idols and diffident façades seem to be all he knows in this glittering, luxurious, _empty_ dominion. Yuuri is different; if he can only get a chance to learn what lies beneath.

 

* * *

 

All of Victor’s attempts to spend time with the prince are blocked. If he is within sight, it is always with the King or his guardian. When they attend the same luncheons, teas, or dinners, Victor’s eyes draw to Yuuri as though an ancient incantation compels him.

Without fail, when Yuuri notices and favors him with a small smile and that brilliant flush across his nose, Victor’s soul takes wing like a phoenix reborn of its own ashes. There is nothing Victor would not do to earn that smile.

Boredom and loneliness facilitate wiling away an afternoon on horseback with Christophe across the lush grounds of the Palais. “If I melt down all the King’s silver, would that get you to talk?” his companion asks with a rakish grin. “The war is over, but those stools are a bit much even for my taste.”

“I’m out of my element,” Victor admits as they canter through the Queen’s prized fragrant gardens. Makkachin trots alongside his white Andalusian mare until they slow to a stop, allowing their steeds to rest.

“Has our darling Vitya been struck by Cupid’s cruel arrow? Such wounds are fatal more often than they are not,” Christophe’s taunt is softened with a good-natured smile.

Victor doesn’t answer, distracted by Makkachin rolling on her back in the grass with little dignity. The memories of luminous yet reserved smiles and tinkling laughter like glass bells fill his mind. Inspiration strikes like a sudden summer downpour.

The Sun King employs a variety of animal breeders for any sundry of companions and livestock. Fortune has favored Victor’s boldness as one ruddy-faced man has toy poodle puppies at the perfect age to leave their dam. Victor chooses a quiet yet bright-eyed boy with thick kinks and curls of russet fur. The puppy is bathed with rose water and in lieu of a collar, Victor chooses to present him with a bow of aquamarine silk velvet.

Victor, with Makkachin by his side, carries the squirming baby across the ground until he happens upon the Dragon Basin. Sure enough, Yuuri reads in his usual spot with his book as his sole companion. He eats a section of one of the King’s prized citrus, and Victor stumbles, lost watching the juice drip down his chin after a particularly voracious bite. It takes an almost Herculean effort to regain his composure. “Ah! Yuuri—“ he greets with the living token of affection wriggling behind his back.

Yuuri smiles as a breeze loosens his hair from its customary tight bun. The strands that fall in his eyes soften his features in a way that almost robs Victor of his dignity a second time. It is a near thing, but Victor does not drop the puppy to kiss his wrist a second time, more ardently and with more desperation as no one is near enough to tell them no. “Good day, Victor.”

“I—“ For the first time since he learned to speak, Victor has no inkling of what to say. Every phrase feels clumsy, too forward, and too hesitant at once. “I know you’re fond of dogs,” he manages after a few echoing beats of his heart. “I thought perhaps…he would make you a good companion for when you read.”

Victor holds out the puppy, who wags his tail at the sight of Yuuri. A small bark comes out of his mouth and Yuuri melts, utterly smitten. He reaches for him, then looks at Victor for permission.

“He is yours,” Victor reiterates. “I simply thought…I wanted to give you a token of my esteem, something to perhaps… allow you to look back on Versailles with a smile upon your departure.”

_ To look back on  _ **_me_ ** _ with a smile, _ Victor thinks as his eyes illuminate with hope.

Yuuri takes the dog, who cuddles up to his chin and kisses his cheek. He hugs him tightly, whispering sweet nothings that Victor cannot hear. When he gives Victor his attention again, his eyes are misty, his face the epitome of joy. “I cannot repay you.”

“Even if I had centuries to ponder, your smile is repayment beyond any request I could think of,” Victor responds.

Yuuri pets behind the puppy’s ears while favoring Victor with a look that is disarming in its openness. Does he dare hope this descendent of the Sun Goddess herself feel the Earth move as he does when they meet? Yuuri drops his gaze to his new friend. “Vicchan,” he says.

“Pardon?” Victor asks. It sounded like—

“Vicchan is his name,” Yuuri reiterates. “For you. Victor combined with a diminutive.  _ Vicchan _ .”

Victor’s heart quickens when their eyes lock, causing Yuuri to smile. The world is so beguiling when he smiles. He’s like gold, like the brightest midday light when the sky is a cloudless, crystalline blue. “I…owe you a poetry reading, do I not?” Yuuri offers.

“I would enjoy that very much,” Victor says as he offers Yuuri an arm. Yuuri hesitates before taking it, putting Vicchan against his heart as he sits. Vicchan curls up on Yuuri’s lap as if it has been his home for years, and Victor sits, enraptured, as Yuuri reads in the language of the Rising Sun, translating elegant syllables about shimmering heat waves over grains of sand into their common language.

If it were possible for this moment to never end, for Victor to store himself with Yuuri and their dogs in a bottle fabricated from blown milk glass and sterling silver etchings, he would without reservation or regret.  

 

* * *

 

A few days pass and Victor comes upon Yuuri reading by the Dragon Basin with Vicchan curled in his lap. Makkachin barks a bright hello, and Vicchan stands with a furiously wagging tail as they romp together for parts unknown, taking turns being pursuer and catcher as they vanish into the greenery with cheerful yipping. “Hello, Victor,” Yuuri greets with a warm smile.

“Yuuri,” Victor says. He takes Yuuri’s left hand and kisses across his knuckles.

Yuuri flushes as pretty as ever. “I was reading, if you would like another recitation…?”

“Please do,” Victor replies. He sits close, but not too much so. The temptation is too great if he breeches this distance.

Yuuri’s robes today are an aquamarine patterned with embroidery of peacocks in tea rose and flax silk fiber. The bold colors suit Yuuri, though there is unlikely anything that could detract from his allure; rather, any garment would simply intensify his natural splendor a thousandfold.

Victor contemplates how he would look clad only in bedsheets for a moment, before swallowing as he arranges his limbs into a more discreet sitting posture.

The time of Yuuri’s royal engagement draws to a close, Victor realizes with a start. The King’s grand masquerade is in a fortnight, and Yuuri departs for the drab, cold British Isles a week after its conclusion. Victor’s body carries an immense weight as though he has been coated in lead and is transformed into a cold, unyielding statue of remorse and doubt. A morose, mourning permanent  _ objet d’art  _ on the grounds to be a topic of discussion for both inhabitant and visitor long after the King ends his reign.

“A cicada shell; it sang itself utter— Victor?” Yuuri intrudes upon Victor’s thoughts as effortlessly as he has ensnared his heart. “Are you listening?”

“Hm,” Victor responds with a wince. “I am listening. Cicadas.”

“You’re not,” Yuuri counters. He closes the book, standing and calling Vicchan to his side. “If you do not wish to be wit---for me to read, I can surely spend my time elsewhere—“

“No,” Victor says. He tugs on Yuuri’s sleeve like a child. “No, I’m simply thinking too much.”

_ About you, about our transience, about our inevitable fate _ hangs in the air, unspoken yet virtually shouted.

Yuuri strokes the spine of the book, the same leather binding and what Victor has come to learn is hiragana on the day Makkachin’s lack of grace caused their collision. Yuuri’s mood is inscrutable, somewhere between a raging storm and the dreary, unending doldrums of Russian winter. “We have so little time,” Yuuri whispers. “I cannot bear to waste a moment before I leave to become… _ that. _ ”

Victor lacks clarity on what  _ that _ may be, but what matters is that Yuuri is correct. Their time is theirs _ for now _ , and he needs to focus on the Yuuri that is _ here _ , not the grief that will consume him when they say goodbye.

“I am quite sorry,” Victor says. He stands close to Yuuri with his hands hovering above his shoulders. It is the closest they’ve been to one another while standing. Victor suddenly realizes their height difference is not as great as he’s assumed. Yuuri only has to tilt his eyes up a little for their gazes to meet, and the intimacy of their posture makes Victor’s heart ignite ever so much more. “Please,” Victor continues. “I want nothing beyond enjoying these moments with you.”

Yuuri sighs.

“Please,” Victor reiterates.

Yuuri’s resolve fades into the ether. He gives Victor a watery smile. “As you wish..”

They sit back down, and Victor does not dare divert his attention away.

 

* * *

 

They read together every chance they are given. These moments are as few as they are clandestine, and Victor finds he slowly awakens with each afternoon spent in Yuuri’s company. He has a song within him named  _ hope _ and when Yuuri thinks he doesn’t notice, he sees a similar spark in his gaze.

The end of all good things can merely be stalled, never prevented. They part for supper with only a few days before the Masquerade, and Victor takes Yuuri’s hand in their new custom of a kiss to Yuuri’s pulse point. Victor has always smelled something light like the orangerie, except it is not quite identical. Yuuri’s aroma is between the sweetness of lemons and a tart grapefruit with a slight base note of honey fresh from the hive. Victor is always bewitched by its impact, like a magic powder ensnaring him fully within the deep thrall of a sorcerer. “What is that?”

Yuuri doesn’t pull away. Even in spite of the mild weather, Victor burns from his gaze. “I bathe in water that is filled with floating yuzu,” Yuuri answers. “Most people at home fill bathwater with them on the Winter Solstice, but I prefer to use them regularly. I find their scent soothes my nerves.”

“I’ll endeavor to remember that,” Victor replies. He presses a second kiss to the rapid pulse beating in the vein under his lips. The sound that comes from deep inside Yuuri’s throat is pained and sensual as his hand turns to cup Victor’s cheek.

Victor does not understand the tongue-lashing that gradually increases from a distance to almost ear-splitting levels but here is Yuuri’s guardian, the Lady Okukawa. She speaks in their native tongue at a furious pace that Victor could not keep up with if he tried, and Yuuri jerks away with a nervous, embarrassed flush. He doesn’t speak to Victor further, simply returning with Vicchan to the palais.

Victor watches this display with confusion. After an hour or so, he makes valiant attempts to find his Yuuri again. The Katsuki-no-miya has a wing to himself as a royal guest of influence, and while Victor tries to find a way to sneak in, there seems to be no avoiding his entourage. He’s about to risk ruining his favorite trousers from an ill-advised trellis climb when the Lady Okukawa clears her throat. “I knew you’d come,” she says in flawless French.

Victor does not know how to reply, and chooses to abstain so that she may continue.

“The Prince feels, as well as I do, he must present an image befitting the potential Emperor he is,” she continues. “Coinciding with this priority is finding a suitable consort for him to provide an heir.”

Lady Okukawa shifts from hard-boiled to sympathetic, perhaps even sad.

“This can never be,” she finishes, and as she walks away with her silk robes dragging as though their weight is several tonnes. It is in stark opposition to the cloud-like floating Yuuri’s garments do when he moves.

There is no point in trailing behind her to plead for a change of heart. Court politics are universal, he thinks with a sour taste replacing the sweet yuzu fragrance that has haunted his senses all day. Games are always games, and there is only one way to win. The right to make one’s own rules must be earned through careful steps and quiet schemes, and a gilded cage is still a cage at the end of the day.

The metaphorical gate is barricaded, Victor’s heart crushed between its bars as it closed.

 

* * *

 

The only reason why Victor even comes to the Masquerade is that it would be unforgivably rude to refuse. He wears silk in lavender and gold, his coral stockings embroidered with gilded thread, and his hair tied back in a heavy, velvet ribbon. He dons a mask of platinum decorated with Veilchenblau roses from one of the Queen’s gardens, and he nurses his breathtaking loss with gin heavy on the flavor of juniper.

Christophe cuts a dashing figure in cobalt and heliotrope, his mask bronze and adorned with lilacs. He spends the evening discussing many things with who Victor only belatedly realizes is the Lady Okukawa. Her hair is powdered white, her gown vermillion; all told, she is lovely, though her sex ensures Victor’s embers ignite with not one single spark.

Christophe has no such qualms. She laughs at a joke with his hand on her waist and hers on his back. A cutting figure of a pair, to be sure.

Late in the evening, just when Victor considers giving up, the crowd stirs, staring and whispering in awe, envy, or both. From his distance, he cannot recognize the woman who has caused such a reaction. She is clad in yards upon yards of shimmering blue, pale across her arms and bosom, darkening to a royal shade like the blood that runs in Victor’s very veins. Her ebony hair is coiffed in an elaborate half-updo filled with the same roses across Victor’s brow, and the hemline of her gown is laden with the same blue-lilac blossoms as if they bloom with every step of her delicate golden slippers. There is no mask on her face, though a fan of white ostrich feathers is held to cover all but her eyes, which are lined in ruby-colored powder.

There’s something—

Victor moves as though lightning has struck. Women are…a presence in his life, but women are not what he craves.  _ This _ woman, though, he thinks as he watches her reject no less than a dozen potential suitors, this woman he can perhaps learn to… care for.

“Mademoiselle,” he begins with his most charming, empty smile. Not quite there yet, then. “Would you do me the—“

He’s close enough he can smell her perfume, scents of—

_ Yuzu and honey. _

The music fades into silence for him as the revelers seemingly freeze as though time itself has ceased.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, half in awe and half with longing. How cruel to now be permitted so close, for Yuuri to somehow be more lovely than ever, and for Victor to have no choice but to keep God and country in the middle.

The fan drops only long enough Victor catches the barest glance at his lips. It immediately goes back up. “Not here,” Yuuri implores. He glances around, his eyes widening at his advisor practically begging for ravishment from Chris.

Victor’s eyebrow rises. “I have heard a tale of a certain prince with too much drink, so I must ask if she—“

“I get it from my father, actually,” Yuuri admits with a self-deprecating laugh. No one is watching them any longer, Yuuri’s grand entrance having worn off in favor of some minor scandal with a mistress or three. Yuuri takes his hand, and they abscond through the wings to the unused Hall of Mirrors. Victor is boxed in by images of himself reflected dozens, if not scores, of times. He hardly notices, too beguiled by the gilded lighting reflecting off the same quantity of his Yuuri. The silk, the shimmering powder across his features like crushed pearls, the shimmering paint glossing his mouth all conspire to make Victor nearly collapse from a cessation of his heartbeat.

Victor takes his hand, turning it as he did before. His lips linger on Yuuri’s pulse as he prays the caress from his kiss will burn a brand into Yuuri the way his  _ everything _ has Victor. Yuuri’s smile is no longer bashful the way it has been, instead it combusts with a wanton passion as first he removes the mask from Victor’s features. His free hand traces the shape of Victor’s brow before his touch lingers on the angle of his cheeks. Then Yuuri grabs Victor’s cravat to pull them flush together. Victor looks over his shoulder with Yuuri’s wrist still in his grasp to ensure they were not followed.

  


  


The music is faint, the crowd more so. If music be the food of love, if this be Victor’s one final chance, then he fervently begs God to let him have Yuuri’s time if only just for now.

Yuuri takes his chin in his hand and turns him so their eyes meet. “Don’t ever take your eyes off me.” It is a royal decree, and Victor, his loyal subject, obeys. When they kiss, Yuuri starts it as pearl paint and powder smear over Victor’s lips. It is not long before Yuuri’s voluminous skirts prove difficult to maneuver. He attempts to hike them high enough to allow their bodies full contact, and Victor kneels to lend aid in this pursuit.

This passion, this  _ love _ that has simmered in Victor’s blood for far too long unfulfilled sends his ability to reason into exile, burns his willpower into ash. He will never have another chance to feel so free, and he reaches out as Yuuri grasps his begging palm.

There are stockings with stays below the skirts colored a richer indigo than the gown. Victor presses a kiss to the smooth skin exposed just above the one adorning his left leg, and Yuuri’s muscles quiver at his touch. He’s dying,  _ drowning _ , Yuuri providing the only means he can ever breathe again, and he presses him hard into the mirror, gripping his waist to hoist him up as his thighs grip Victor’s narrow hips like a vice.

He can’t even muster the energy to fully disrobe, Victor managing only what is necessary for their mutual satisfaction. Yuuri grips the frame of the mirror with his hands, his back arching and chest heaving as Victor marks his neck into spots of darker purple than either of their chosen outfits. Yuuri utters a litany that crescendos into a wail as his gown is utterly despoiled by their temporary ascension into heaven as one.

Their breathing slows in each other’s mouth as Yuuri bends to kiss him once more. Once he returns to his senses, Victor sets him gently on his feet. The pleasure is shattered by a complete, unyielding pain deep in his gut.

“I cannot let you go,” Victor says. It is not a question or a statement that wavers. It is final, an absolute, an unyielding truth.

“Then _ don’t _ ,” Yuuri implores after a beat of silence. “I don’t want the life chosen for me. I want to live the way that  _ I _ choose — with Vicchan and  _ you _ . Should I go home it will be an impossibility; my friend, the Phra Ong Chao, has offered me one of his summer palaces. You can join me.”

“The Court—“ Victor begins. There is no follow up or counter-argument. The only time he’s ever found the palais happy has been during Yuuri’s visit, their quiet tête-à-têtes teaching him the truths of life and love.

It must show on his face. “There is nothing keeping you here,” Yuuri says. “Please, Victor, come with me. Stay by my side and don’t leave.”

All of Victor’s belongings are here; with such short notice, only a few trifles can be taken. Then again, no, he realizes as he bathes in the warmth filling Yuuri’s gaze. He will leave with the most precious masterpiece he could ever hope to hold.

“Let us go then. Right now.”

Yuuri smiles.

As the party still rages, footmen fill a carriage with with a few steamer trunks. They hold books of haiku, favorite clothing, family heirlooms of sentimental value more than monetary, and portraits of their families. Makkachin and Vicchan are shown into the vehicle first, curling up on a seat together with identical collars in a vibrant blue for Makkachin and a royal purple for Vicchan.

Victor enters the carriage in less-flamboyant vestments for their journey, assisting Yuuri up the steps with a gallant hand. Yuuri sits first, arranging them so he can lean against Victor to sleep as they steal away in the night.

They begin their road to freedom, dogs and humans both. As the hooves of the horses clap against the pavement, Victor looks towards the Palais, committing it to memory as he will undoubtedly never return. A lit palace window catches his eye with only a man’s silhouette visible beyond the glass. It is Christophe’s window, and Victor raises his hand to bid farewell.

They ride towards their coast, to a waiting vessel that will carry them beyond a sea of waking dreams and as Victor kisses Yuuri’s hair, for the first time he truly feels peace.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhhhhhhhh it's so exciting for Clara and I to finally share this with you all! I'm so happy to be able to call her a friend now after working with her!
> 
> Her art is incredible, better than I'd ever hoped, and we both dearly hope you like this as a lot of work and research went into it, from Yuuri's titling system to the specific breed of blue roses on their outfits and everything in-between!
> 
> Thank you also to handsingsweapon for the Versailles photos when I first mentioned my plans on the zine server. Heartfelt thanks to Robbie, Nenya, and Nica for the invaluable feedback on the prose. The tile is from [a track by AIR off an EP of the same name](https://open.spotify.com/track/6ibsMUSgaEhxJMorXxXtG9?si=wxhuGBHZSpm1v_n6J47kZQ). 
> 
> If you purchased the zine, I hope you enjoyed Clara's piece in printed living color next to my prose! 
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://sinkingorswimming.tumblr.com) or [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/sink_or_swim)  
> Clara can be found at [Tumblr](https://claramarla.tumblr.com) or [Twitter as well.](https://twitter.com/Claramarlaa) Please make sure to give her a shout if you love the art as much as I do. <3
> 
> Thank you for reading this and I hope you enjoy everyone else's amazing work on this project!


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